He steps outside of his putty house
and stares at the midnight sun;
catches flurries
of pastel colored barnacles on his tongue.
Candy-coated cigarettes, puffed in
rings of lavender scented mist toward the stars.
The humans make their way through slush
and liquid concrete.
Golf cart garbage men
slip between
alleys and nail polish junkies lounge against
fence posts. Their chests are closed, sewed –
bits of stitching here – and there.
In his restaurant, teetering
over a silken sea,
the hearts cook in pots of oil, thick
and oozing. Sizzle! POP!
They hiss like lightning,
tremble with birdsong.
“Order Up!”
Hollow wooden waiters serve them, still
beating on icy plates.
Grapefruit-sized holes gape
in each patron’s chest.
Their noses sniff, perk; not seeing
but still, the smell of warmth, touch.
Flesh.
Roses on Valentine’s Day and love notes,
familiar raised lines and loops –
like braille, flattened
by starvation.
Pink blood
spills onto the clouds,
(Cumulonimbus)
as they gobble with paws and claws.
He watches, as he does every day,
through glasses of mantis shrimp eyes,
and waits for sunrise.
